


kiss me on the mouth (and set me free)

by bluescat



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 4+1, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up Together, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:47:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28678374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluescat/pseuds/bluescat
Summary: In which Ignis almost gives in to his weakness four times — and one time he actually does (and it turns out not to be a weakness, not at all).
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 3
Kudos: 82
Collections: Ignoct New Years Gift Exchange 2020





	kiss me on the mouth (and set me free)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lunarrhymes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarrhymes/gifts).



> Written for Ignoct New Year's Gift Exchange 2020, for Lunarrhymes.
> 
> Dear Giftee, 
> 
> I hope this meets at least a small part your expectations – I tried to encapsulate your request (which I personally loved, by the way) as best as I could. It's already been a few days since we entered 2021, but nonetheless, I hope this will be a good year for you, filled with warmth, happiness and at least a quarter of the love these two have for each other.

i.

When Ignis lets himself in Noctis’ apartment, standing just a few blocks away from the Citadel – close enough to remain in the neighborhood, yet just far enough to feel independent – he’s being, as usual, both casual and quietly polite. While he has long since received a permanent access to the place, from Noctis and his father alike, and he does not need to feel like an intruder every time he comes by, it still feels to Ignis appropriate to remain as official as possible and maintain good manners regardless of whether the apartment is empty or has king Regis visiting.

Leaving his shoes neatly placed by the door and jacket hung up on the rack in the vestibule, he goes straight to the kitchen area, turning on the lights on his way with his elbow, both hands busy with bags of groceries. It’s eerily quiet, now that Noctis hasn’t come back from school yet – no music playing, no sounds of the video games coming from the tv speakers, no rustling of snacks in plastic bags. It will change in no time, Ignis is sure, as the prince’s heavy boots should cross the threshold any moment now, and while Ignis generally doesn’t mind the rustle and bustle of Noctis’ presence, he enjoys the little peace and quiet he gets here. It allows him to look at the apartment in a somewhat different light – not through the list of tasks he ought to cross out during his visit of the day, but simply for what it is: a place with nice interiors, where Lucian history blends in seamlessly with a modern touch of its youngest descendant and that is soaked through and through in the very essence of who Noctis is – both the good and the bad, none go which are any less dear to Ignis.

He’s just in the middle of cooking a curry stew, loaded with meat and vegetable, and just enough spice to bring that much needed heat to the late autumn weather, the temperature getting colder and colder by the day, when the door to the apartment finally opens with a quiet _click_ of a keycard being used, much later than Ignis would expect according to Noctis’ schedule.

He tries not to let it test his patience just yet, aware of how this has been an ongoing issue with Noctis these past few weeks, Noctis having apparently entered some kind of a rebellious stage that makes him try out the composure and tolerance of everybody around him. From going against nearly every request, through skipping on assigned tasks, to being perpetually late everywhere and to everything – it’s been getting rather ridiculous, and even Ignis, always priding himself in his fortitude, has nearly reached the point of no return quite a few times already. It’s just a matter of time, he reckons, when it _actually_ happens, but he tries his best to remain as accommodating as possible, keeping in mind that Noctis is, after all, in a rather peculiar position and hasn’t had as much of an easy life as one would expect from the heir to the throne.

More often then not, Ignis feels for Noctis and the desire to help him overcomes his instinct to get angry.

„Hi, Specs,” comes the greeting, followed by a heavy _thud_ , an unmistakable sound of a school bag being dropped on the floor. „Smells good.”

„Good evening, Noctis,” Ignis responds curtly, giving the stew a few careful stirs with a wooden spoon as he looks at the prince from above the pot, easily noting the much higher spirits he’s in than he used to be just a day ago. „Today’s menu is curry stew over rice, I thought you may enjoy something warming and comforting for the season. I will be done in ten minutes. Shall I set a portion on the table for you?”

„No need. Had a bite out.”

A moment of silence, Ignis letting out a deep breath that he half holds in, annoyance mixed with disappointment weighing on his shoulders.

„I see,” he says it more to himself, Noctis busy with picking items out of his back and making a general mess around. „I will store it in the refrigerator for you, it shall be ready to heat up whenever you feel hungry.”

There’s no answer to that and despite Ignis expecting it—Noctis’ rebellion directed also at him, as the extension of his own father and the familial duty—the feeling of dejection lingers at the forefront of his mind and will remain there for at least the night to come. They’ve been around each other for years now, and Ignis likes to think they grew to be rather close friends, the bond feeling to him more like family at times, like something _more,_ which made it all the more difficult when in a matter of weeks things have shifted and Noctis pulled rather suddenly and radically away from him.

Duty to the throne may always be Ignis’ highest priority, but he much preferred to fulfill it while being around someone who enjoyed the company, not tolerated it at best.

Having boxed three servings of food in separate containers and cleaning the kitchen to leave it in a pristine condition that Noctis will no doubt ruin in a matter of hours, Ignis wanders inside the apartment, looking for the prince. He finds him, as usual, in his bedroom, sprawled across the bed with a phone in hand, his appearance not much changed since he came back home. All rumpled clothes, hair floppy on one side, as if he took a quick nap on the pillow, and face drowsy looking, Ignis finds him rather endearing, like someone one may want to spend a cozy evening in with, simply enjoying blissful stillness and each other’s company.

But then they start talking and the whole spiel is over.

„I could not find the overview on the reports I have given you last week,” Ignis mentions, asking the question without really stating it out loud. He suspects it a sore point even before Noctis’ reaction.

„Yeah, I didn’t do it,” he says in an offhand manner, like anything that Ignis says carries no importance whatsoever.

„Noct. We agreed on the deadline. We already pushed it three days.”

„What does it matter whether I do it or not?” He asks, still not looking up from his phone, and Ignis already knows this isn’t going to be a pleasant conversation, the defensive notes being telling enough. „This stuff is useless. It’s not like I’m responsible for any of this.”

„It is a part of your royal education. One day, it will be your responsibility—you need to learn it.”

Ignis is much aware that, if anything, the harsh truth will anger him even more—but it needs to be said, he believes. Noctis may be sheltered by his father, for good reasons, but he can’t remain oblivious to his obligations.

„I don’t care.”

„Your father is already giving you more freedom than anyone has ever advised him to. Do honor his wish to learn about your own family’s legacy, please.”

„Why won’t you do it? You do everything else for me anyway. You probably know these papers by heart, learning like a good little student,” and it’s then that Noctis finally looks at him, with the kind of gaze that, in all honesty, is a bit hurtful to Ignis, all the kind feelings and warm memories they have made as kids clenching his insides to the point of great discomfort. „Why won’t _you_ become the next king instead?”

„Do not be disrespectful,” he chides instantly, tone stern.

„Do not try to do my father’s job and raise me,” Noctis fires back instantly, in a poor imitation of Ignis’ manner of speech, putting an accent on the middle syllables.

It infuriates Ignis. Be it the behavior, the extra cruelty that has not been there before or the fact that he directs his unfounded anger directly on Ignis too. It infuriates him even more because parts of it, the ones in between the pure spite, are actually _true_ and no matter how hard he would try, Ignis can’t ignore it.

It’s true that it is not his job to raise Noctis, just how the fact that, being so separated from the everyday royal life, it makes little to no sense to have with these pages of knowledge dumped on him periodically, reports and summaries that mean nothing to someone who is not a part of it, not really. Not only does it not raise Noctis’ actual awareness of any political matters, but Ignis supposes it makes him hate it a little bit more each time, too.

Maybe that’s why, once again pushed to the very verge of his patience, Ignis is torn between two things, one even more inappropriate than the other: a part of him wants to walk up to Noctis, grab him by the shoulders and haul him from the bed to shake some sense into him, while the other wants to use that chance to press lips to his, tight and insistent, in an offer of both a wake-up call and support based on Ignis’ unwavering loyalty and pent up emotions.

In the end, he does neither of these.

(When he comes back to Noctis’ apartment two days later, he’s once again out late, but Ignis finds an eight-page overview on the counter and three empty food containers loaded in the dishwasher.)

ii.

„What’s up with you today, Ignis?”

The question is rather sudden and it makes Ignis snap out of his thoughts, leaving him slightly confused and requiring a moment to regain the focus on the here-and-now. It’s late evening by now and they’re sitting on a couch in the living room of Noctis’ apartment, the piece of furniture in an entirely different place than it was the day before, Noctis deciding out of blue that he feels like remodeling. Ignis, being the person who he is – meant to guide and support Noctis in his endeavors – agreed to helping, hauling furniture after furniture according to Noctis’ vision, and not finding it in himself to mention how pointless it is, in their current situation.

It’s been quite a few hours now since his emergency meeting with the king and his advisor, where plans regarding Noctis’ future and the details of their surprisingly near leave from Insomnia were shared with him ahead of time—of Noctis himself. _It will be best to not alert the prince too soon,_ they said, and while Ignis agreed with it at the time, every next moment spent around Noctis makes the resolve weaker and weaker.

How is he supposed to be alright with keeping from him plans about his own life? Everything is about to be turned upside down, apparently nobody quite sure where the journey ends up getting them exactly, and Noctis is left in the dark, clueless, only expected to follow once appropriate.

For what is probably the first time in Ignis’ life, he’s actually agitated by the king’s decisions.

„You’re weirding me out, you never stay this quiet during cooking shows,” Noctis adds after a few moments, shifting where he has his head pillowed on Ignis’ thighs covered with a soft blanket. He looks up at him, a little expectant and very obviously confused, maybe worried, blue eyes set on Ignis’ face. He was sleepy just a moment ago, but right now, he’s more alert than Ignis has seen him in a long while.

Noctis sits up eventually, all tense and fidgety, like he’s getting ready to peel things off of Ignis is he doesn’t give them up willingly. There are many questionable traits he grew out of across the years, thankfully, but stubbornness is not one of them – which Ignis is actually thankful for, finding it a rather endearing quality for a person and a handy one for a future king.

„Seriously, what’s going on?”

He wants to tell him. He wants to let him in on the secret that should not be one in the first place, he wants to give him his own opinions on it too, wants to prepare for it together. But as much as he wants, he cannot break the promise made to the king and risk the so very delicate arrangement that the success of depends on its suddenness and lack of expectancy.

He wants to comfort him, the anger and frustration and sense of betrayal that will no doubt appear right there, in these blue eyes, once he figures it all out. People tend to look down on Noctis, given his history of moods and rebellious streaks, not giving him enough credit, but he’s smart, sometimes too smart for his own good, and it will take him little to no time to know he’s been made a fool by people closest to him. So Ignis wants to comfort him, before there’s even anything to comfort him about, because he knows it might be a while before he has a chance to do it after they leave Insomnia.

„Just tired,” he says instead, not entirely a lie – but not the truth that he should let out, either.

Rather unexpectedly, Noctis laughs a bit at that, a small confused laughter that sounds soft and warm.

„You? Are you even capable of feeling tiredness?”

„I will have you know that yes, indeed I am.”

Noctis softens visibly then, his shoulders drooping when the tension leaves his posture and his body sags against the back of the couch, right next to Ignis. Gently, but with a trademark clumsiness, Noctis pulls the blanket up Ignis’ legs, covering more of his body with it and patting it down.

„Rest up, then. You deserve it,” he says, dimming the lights with one of the remotes to the level similar to one that a candle would give and using the other to lower the tv’s volume to a mere murmur, words still recognizable but not overwhelmingly so. Then he cozies up to Ignis, almost melting into the couch and resting his head against Ignis’ arm, apparently set on using him as a pillow that day.

Ignis doesn’t mind it. Instead he thinks, not for the first and surely not the last time, that, Astrals, he wishes he could just kiss the boy and have all his worries, problems, rocky past and unsteady future melt against his lips, temporarily gone and replaced by all the unconditional support and endearment he has for him. And while there’s a very small part of him that believes Noctis would not oppose the idea at all, welcoming him in the arms that grew to be compassionate and accommodating to his loved ones, Ignis is far from acting upon it, the awareness of the harm it may cause too great to be ignored.

They spend the night like that, lulled to sleep by the blueish glow of the tv and each other’s warmth.

iii.

It’s the second campsite of their journey, far from home and even farther from their destination, the tents set up in what seems to be the middle of nowhere. It’s a fairly scenic place too though and getting outside in the early morning to see the sun just barely peeking out from the nearby mountain reinvigorates Ignis with a new bout of energy, the chilly, fresh air having no less impact on him.

He’s halfway through preparing the ingredients for their breakfast, the time suggesting there’s still a long while before any of his companions emerge from the tents, when he hears feet scuffing on the ground and a terribly long and loud yawn that can only belong to one person.

„What is the matter, Noct? Have you got some bloodsucking bugs in your tent again?” Ignis asks without ever looking away from the cutting board, currently chopping a handful of chives. His lips quirk in a smile, the memory of Noctis making a fuss out of the _bugs that are out there to get him_ still fresh in Ignis’ mind from the night before.

„Astrals, I hope not,” Noctis murmurs grumpily in response, apparently not yet awake enough to take actual offense in Ignis’ teasing amusement. His feet drag audibly against the dirt and stone as he makes his way to Ignis’ side, and the first thing Ignis sees as he steps into his periphery is a hand rubbing at eyes that still seem asleep and a full set of teeth in excellent condition as he fails to cover up his second yawn of the day. At least there is no need for a dental checkup anytime soon, Ignis notes, transferring the chopped chives in a bowl and setting it aside. Noctis’ eyes, now half-open, follow the movement and keep assessing the state of the small table, littered by various ingredients, some still in their original form.

„I wanna help,” he says finally, shifting his bleary gaze from the table to Ignis. He’s not sure if he’s seeing him at all yet.

„You wish to help—with breakfast?” Ignis asks, rather surprised—perhaps even confused. Mornings have never been Noctis’ favorite and, as bratty as it sounds, he usually takes breakfast for granted, just expecting it to be there once he wakes up.

„Mn,” he hums, reaching out for an onion, turning it around in his hand once and then decisively putting it back—except all the way on the other end of the table. „But not with that. No crying in the morning.”

„Naturally. We would not want you hurting your royal image,” Ignis agrees, halting his movements just to watch Noctis. It’s a bit like a theatre comedy, movements exceptionally clumsy even for Noctis and as if in slow motion, exaggeratedly so, to the point where, if it was anyone but Noctis, Ignis would not believe them to not be staged.

After a bit of debate, Noctis ends up settling on a bowlful of wild mushrooms, picked by Gladio in the nearby forest just the other day. „I’ll do those.”

„You’ll do the mushrooms,” Ignis repeats carefully, watching as, with another yawn, Noctis moves over to the free space of the table and reaches out for the knife. When he tries to grab it by the blade side, that is when Ignis decides to put an end to this charming scene, using his own hand to put a barrier between the knife and Noctis and gently knocking his arm away.

„How about you take care of washing all the dirt off them and I shall take over the chopping?” He suggests, pointing towards a container of water on the right.

„Yes, chef,” Noctis agrees amicably, apparently not yet awake enough to make sense of the situation and put up a stubborn act, as he no doubt would if it was any later in the day. It makes Ignis smile a bit, as he continues to work on the ingredient preparation but pays it only half his mind, the other half wandering to Noctis, crouched over the small bucket where he dips the mushrooms one by one and scrubs them clean. It’s a rather tedious job, the shrooms way too tiny and taking a lot of finger gymnastics to get all the sand and specs of moss from their crevices; when by the time Ignis is done with everything else Noctis is still halfway through, he decides to join him, crouching on the other side of the bucket.

They work quietly but diligently, leaning closely over the water, their heads almost touching. With every other mushroom Ignis looks up at Noctis, each time seeing the same picture: yet unstyled hair falling smoothly around a still sleepy but focused face, its darkness reflecting some warmer strands through the early morning sun. He looks pretty, Ignis has to admit, in that particularly masculine but delicate way; he looks like someone Ignis can imagine himself leaning over to and imprinting a chaste, good morning kiss on their cheek. He looks calm and peaceful, as if the easy but methodic work grounds him, all the tension and uncertainty of the recent events temporarily forgotten. If Ignis stops thinking about the big picture for a moment, it’s almost like he’s happy. He wishes for him to be happy.

And it’s in this absolutely mundane moment that is not special at all, not really, in the soft morning glow of the rising sun, that for the first time Ignis thinks, with all the clarity of his mind, that he has grown to truly love this boy.

iv.

It’s dark. It’s so dark that it’s hard for Ignis to find enough things, enough focal points through his remaining senses to ground himself and keep his mind from spiraling to a place even darker than the blind vision of his eyes. The feeling comes and goes, like waves of a particularly moody sea – one moment he’s alright, making peace with his state and focusing on things that were saved, rather than those that were lost; and then comes the next one, when it all gets too much, the fear and the inability to seek ways to deal with it suffocating him from within.

And it hurts—it hurts more than anything Ignis has ever experienced before. Not only physically, the wounds still fresh and throbbing, seared deep into his flesh like an eternal divine branding; it hurts mentally too, the sudden lack of independence making it hard to breathe, mind not quite able to wrap around the idea of needing assistance with the most mundane tasks, rendering him pretty much useless in all the ways he made himself valuable to others.

When he hears Noctis, desperate and mourning, fight with everyone around like a wounded animal, Ignis’ first instinct is to leap forward, right in the fire that Noctis is, and comfort him at the expense of his own well-being.

It’s only in the next moment that he realizes how many additional obstacles there are on his way to do something he has been doing almost his whole life, some of which he’s not had the time to figure out just yet. It is that, above everything else, that makes him feel inadequate and like less than the person from a few days back – the awareness that he will never be able to stand by Noctis the way he used to, will never catch up with him again, even if the sacrifice he has made has ultimately been all for him.

It’s another one of Gladio’s baritone yells that pulls Ignis out of his thoughts, catching just the tail end of what was no doubt a heated quarrel.

„Step up finally and stop acting like a spoiled brat, it’s not a school day in Insomnia anymore!”

The words are harsh, just like majority of them leaving Gladio’s mouth since the news on the fall of Insomnia, only gradually getting worse, heavier, weighted down by the experiences and time spent on marching forward instead of stopping for a moment and allowing himself to grieve. Grief is, unfortunately, a luxury that none of them are allowed right now.

Rather expectedly, there is a commotion that ends with hasty march of heavy boots, gradually moving farther and farther away, until it disappears somewhere behind Ignis’ back. Carefully, he lets out a deep breath, not wishing to bring any additional attention to his own frustration.

„I do not believe speaking to him in such manner will have any positive effect on his attitude. It has never worked with Noct, as far as my experience reaches.”

„What am I supposed to do then? It’s not like we have a backup king willing to take over waiting for us anywhere,” Gladio says, clearly frustrated, but his anger simmers down audibly as he talks to Ignis. It’s unfortunate that all his negative emotions are directed right at Noctis, firing at him like bullets, but it is one of the burdens the crown needs to withstand during its rule, Ignis supposes.

It takes a moment to brace himself before getting up, fingers clutching on the cane hard enough that Ignis is sure his knuckles become white. It hurts even before he gets up, the mere idea of doing it, the pain of the burns hidden somewhere beneath the skin and flesh, as if his insides have not yet cooled down and are still boiling under the intense heat of the divine light.

„Do not coddle him, Ignis. He needs to grow up!” Gladio storms once he realizes Ignis’ intention, so easily angered.

„You have tried your ways, Gladiolus. Do allow me to try mine.”

Limping through the train is both terrifying and humiliating, Ignis sure people are staring at him and wondering just what this foolish cripple is trying to do. _Live,_ he thinks to himself, clutching on the cane that much harder, _live and not lose the track of what matters._

It’s two carriages later that he hears it, the familiar breathing and very quiet sound of a nail catching against a tooth in a quick, repetitive succession. It’s strange how he has never realized that’s a thing he noticed and categorized in his mind, an auditory detail compartmentalized and moving forth just in the moment he needs it.

„Noct,” he calls out quietly, uncertainly, when he thinks he’s close, yet not quite sure. The idea of getting it wrong, of making a mistake, terrifies him.

„Ignis,” it’s a gasp more than a word, a little surprised, a little—pitying, and a whole lot apologetic. Noctis blames himself for this, just as Ignis suspected—he blames himself for most of the things that happen to everyone around him, unable to cope with it in any other way.

Ignis maneuvers himself to sit right next to Noctis, who catches onto his forearm as he lowers his body onto the seat, holding half of his weight and the same amount of pain, too. Ignis inclines his head in a silent _thank you_ and heaves a sigh: of both relief and concern, unsure where he wants to go from here.

„Do not take his words to heart, Noct. We are all under pressure we do not know how to deal with at this point,” Ignis says gently, trying to mitigate the conflict without visibly taking any sides. They are all on the same one, anyway.

Noctis remains silent for a long while, Ignis unable to detect any sort of movement on his left side.

„I should know though. Out of all of us, I should be the one to figure it out,” he says eventually, sounding much more level than Ignis would ever expect him to. He wishes he could see him, what shade of blue his eyes are right now, whether his lips are tense and pulling downwards or relaxed, allowing the words out freely.

Ignis is unsure what to respond with, faced with the cold, harsh truth of how correct Noctis’ words are. By all means, it is the king who should have everything figured out before anyone else – it’s what people expect, where they look towards for answers they do not have, who marks the beginning of every action, all initiatives. But this simple truth doesn’t take into account situations like their current predicament, where the young king found himself in a position so sudden and unexpected, where he’s not ready to provide things others may expect from him.

It only adds to the pain Ignis feels, this realization and Noctis’ clear struggle. There’s a pull within him that tells him to turn to Noctis, to offer him the comfort and find the relief of his own in it too – in the dear arms to embrace, in the warm shoulder to lean on, in the longing press of the lips that could, for just a few moments, take away the ache and shelter them from the outside. Ignis has no illusions that love can cure it all, no matter how long has it festered and grew into him, how beautifully it could bloom once given that little bit of light and water; but it could make it better for just this while, for this train ride between one revelation and another.

Except—it would feel so selfish, Ignis realizes, the single sane thought suddenly making its way through the haze of agony and grief and uncertainty. When the future of the entire world is at stake, how can they ever think about something as singular and egocentric as their own private comfort?

When a hand presses to his, still wrapped around his cane in a vice grip, it’s not nearly enough—but it is _something_ , a sign that they feel the same, perhaps, a thought to come back to in the next moment of doubt.

Ignis closes his eyes, the darkness remaining just the same.

v.

How does one sleep knowing that, once they wake up the following day, they will knowingly march to their death with the hopes of saving the world? How does one close their eyes, aware that it is the last time they do it with the expectance of opening them again? How does one _truly_ make their peace with it, leaving behind the world, the people and the life they aren’t done with yet at all?

Noctis is not sure how long has it been now, him staring into the still flickering fire, not blinking until his eyes sting and vision glosses over, hand rubbing the pain out and then doing it all over again. Oddly, it feels good to use his eyes that way, to use them _at all_ , after such a long time of resting them in that whole another plane of reality where none of his senses were useful at all. He wants to experience as much as possible in the little time he has left, to make use of that tiny window of time where blinking an eye feels like a complete waste of what he’s been given.

There is not much to experience though, he realizes. The world is far from how he has left it and trying to live through it ends up only painfully reminding him what is at stake here, what he is meant to save through his newly possessed knowledge, power and impending sacrifice.

Closing his eyes and sleeping would be much easier, in retrospect. Just speed up the process and get it over with as soon as possible, for everybody’s sake. He has said his goodbyes already. He has had a lot of time to get used to the idea. There is no turning back or stopping it now.

Maybe a part of him knew what it was waiting— _hoping_ —for even before it happened, some thought at the very edge of his own recognition. He doesn’t need to look to know who the feet scuffing on the stone belong to, approaching him slowly, carefully, but with confidence. Not for the first time since returning does Noctis note how comfortable Ignis seems to be with his blindness, a complete opposite to how he has left him; Noctis is glad, thankful that Ignis never gave up on himself. Knowing what he does now, of what Ignis has done, Noctis doesn’t think he could ever forgive himself if Ignis allowed himself to wither in the aftermath of their Altissian encounter.

„Hi, Iggy,” Noctis greets him, finding indescribable amounts of joy in using the old nickname, „Can’t sleep?”

„Noct,” he whispers, the tone of his voice low, a little raspy, as if tousled by emotions. It’s a little surprising to Noctis, because if there’s one thing that Ignis has always been exceptional at, it’s keeping his feelings in check, rarely letting them be seen or heard unless explicitly desired by Ignis himself.

Noctis is waiting – surely, there’s something Ignis wants to say, something he wants to say, but he remains idle for the longest time, and if Noctis didn’t know better, he’d think that he’s just looking at him, maybe trying to remember as much of him as he can, painting a memorial picture inside of his head. But the only picture Ignis has is the one of a twenty year old Noctis, still a little bratty, difficult to be around, not yet sure what truly matters in his life.

There’s no limp or stutter to Ignis’ movements as he steps closer, some time later, lowering himself on the same log Noctis is sitting on, close to the fire where it’s the warmest. He’s not afraid of the fire, unaware of how big and wild and bright it is, and ignores the heat of it altogether, his scars long since just a visual reminder, no longer hurting.

A part of Noctis is surprised at the sudden, unrestricted proximity, at hands extending towards him in a considerate way that allows him just enough time to lean away should he want to. He doesn’t.

Another part of him, the same one that urged him to stay here, is not surprised at all.

Instinctively, Noctis inclines his head forward in the smallest of movements, leaning just that last inch of distance into Ignis’ hands. It’s just his fingertips at first, warm and smooth, leather gloves left behind; they barely touch Noctis’ cheeks, speckled with dark facial hair that he did not bother to get rid of. Ignis traces the line of his short beard, mapping its growth along his jawline, and then following the hair up his chin and over his upper lip, where his knuckles bump against the tip of Noctis’ nose.

Somewhere between cheekbones, where Ignis presses against their highest point and then cups them with palms, fingers moving a bit into his hair, feeling their length and texture, and eyes, his lashes tickling the insides of Ignis’ hands and eyelids closing as he moves along his brow bone, Noctis finally realizes that this is not just Ignis’ whim, a way to spend these last moments together, to enjoy the intimacy that neither of them ever allowed themselves before. It’s so much more, he thinks, opening his eyes again as Ignis guides his fingers back down, gently feeling the outline of his lips.

 _He looks at me,_ Noctis wonders to himself, lips parting a little under the delicate pressure applied to them. Sometime between ten years ago and today, Ignis’ hands became his eyes, and this is how he will remember who Noctis is, who he had grown up to be during the time that was stolen from them.

The realization makes him smile a bit, a small, warm smile underneath the gentle fingers, marveling at the ever so resourceful Ignis finding his way around the worst thing that has ever happened to him. Of course he did. Noctis has never doubted him.

It’s all instinct, a natural progression of this moment that neither of them dares to overthink or dispute – sometime between one breath and another, Noctis presses a kiss to Ignis’ fingers and, where the fingers rest one second, the next they are replaced by another set of lips, equally as warm and as carefully insistent as the hands have been. The kiss is all shaky breaths, desperately taken in through the gaps when all the air evaporates from lungs, it’s tremble of years worth of yearning and of immeasurable amounts of fear, unexpressed but persistently hiding in the crevices of their being, dreading the next day, dreading the inevitable. It’s pain, and pleasure, and love, and bitterness, all in one, all in the tiny space between them, all in the clutching hands and the sting behind the closed eyelids.

„Noct,” Ignis says again, but different this time, warmer somehow, more sure, less like a question. He’s holding his face again, but rather than feeling is around, the press of palms to his skin feels more like an embrace, the kind of embrace where one feels like they’re holding the entire world between their fingers.

„Do promise me you will do your best to remain alive.”

 _Do not give up,_ Noctis hears in between the lines, a silent, emotional plea that would be shocking, coming from Ignis, if he hasn’t already felt it all in the way he touched and kissed him.

It’s probably the most difficult thing anyone has ever asked of him, Noctis realizes, wondering how much more they can defy the fate that has been long since decided for them. And yet, if there is one person he would do the impossible for, it is without any doubts Ignis, the one person who seems to have lost his faith in him, who remained by his side regardless of anything else.

„I promise,” he says, imprinting the pledge against Ignis’ lips with the full awareness of it possibly being the last thing he will have given him in this life.

**Author's Note:**

> Is the magical power of fifteen years of unresolved emotional tension enough to save them from death? Who knows. (Yes, it does.)


End file.
